


Stressbaking

by AkumaStrife



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-04
Updated: 2013-11-04
Packaged: 2017-12-31 11:19:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1031074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AkumaStrife/pseuds/AkumaStrife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finals are T-42 hours when Jim finally manages to track Bones down (in the student facilities’ kitchen pods, of all places). McCoy is decidedly not happy to see him, but then what else is new. He’s elbow deep in flour, with a towel half-assed around him like an apron’s bastard cousin, and muttering obscenities at cookware.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stressbaking

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SnackerJack](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnackerJack/gifts).



Finals are T-42 hours when Jim finally manages to track Bones down (in the student facilities’ kitchen pods, of all places). McCoy is decidedly not happy to see him, but then what else is new. He’s elbow deep in flour, with a towel half-assed around him like an apron’s bastard cousin, and muttering obscenities at cookware.  

Jim sighs fondly and leans against the wall near the kitchenette, arms folded. “Wow, baking. Really. I did not peg you for the type.” 

McCoy jerks in surprise and suddenly there’s eggs on the floor and vanilla slowly dripping onto the counter. It takes less than a nanosecond for him to adopt a particularly aggrieved glare. He looks down at himself and begins picking at his clothes, with a sharp, “I swear, Jim, if you put a tracker on me…” 

Jim laughs and shakes his head. “If I had, I would’ve been here much sooner.” 

With a huff and a grumble, McCoy crouches down to clean up his mess. But that’s it. No yelling, or expletives through eyebrow acrobatics, or threats to get him to leave. Jim’s expression slips a bit because Bones _never_ passes up an opportunity to berate and verbally abuse him.    

“Which is it?” Jim asks as he invites himself in, removing dirty dishes from under Bones’ steady hands without prompting.  

McCoy spares him a half second glance of genuine confusion. “What?” 

“The class that’s got your panties in a twist.”  

He gets a particularly sour glare for that, but McCoy starts talking about his supervised surgery the next day. So many things are riding on this one event. The faster he talks, the faster his hands move, and Jim does his best to just listen. He washes dishes by hand for something to do, and prompts Bones when he begins to trail off, his eyes regaining that caught in headlights expression that comes with all final exams. Once Jim gets him launched into a entirely too vivid and thorough breakdown of what exactly he has to do for the test, he relaxes, letting Bones direct his impromptu and completely unconscious study session.  

When Jim tosses a plate into the air and spins a full 360 before catching it, McCoy’s face turns white and splotchy red all at once and yells at him for being a reckless clown. It’s familiar and normal, and Jim smiles cheekily before carefully putting the plate away.  

“Yeah, yeah, make yourself useful by finding the mixer,” he snaps. “It’s an older model, but it’s been in the family.” 

Jim salutes sloppily before diving into a ragged box in the corner of the kitchenette, obviously dragged all the way from Georgia. He rummages around and instead surfaces with a powder blue apron crammed into a container missing its lid. It has a cupcake stitched on the front pocket. The tags are still attached.  

“Is this…?” 

McCoy does a double take and freezes. After a moment he clears his throat and tries for a casual shrug that falls flat and stilted. “She wasn’t in the kitchen much anyways. Wasn’t her thing.” 

“Awesome.” Without so much as a glance, Jim throws it on and ties the ribbon in the back, looking far too pleased with himself.  

“You’re a right sight,” McCoy snorts in amusement, and then panic crosses his face. Like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to laugh; if he’s allowed to look at it with anything other than regret and something black and empty like space, eating away at the light.  

Jim tosses his head and pops his hips to the side. “Forget you, I think I look fetching. It really slims my waist and highlights my ass.” 

Bones just about rolls his eyes right out of his head, but can’t help the start of a rueful grin. It’s hard, being around Jim and not being affected by his easy optimism and general air of everything sliding off his back like rain on feathers. It’s hard wallowing around someone who’s every glance feels like a hand reaching after you into the abyss.  

Jim procures a nice bottle of bourbon and they make ‘Chocolate Decadence’ (a german chocolate bunt cake made with bourbon, and then coated liberally in bourbon-infused frosting). Bones shrugs as they’re looking at the finished product, and pours a bit more alcohol over top of it.  

“A family specialty,” Bones informs him primly. Jim isn’t surprised in the slightest. 

Jim gets rid of the apron, and Bones doesn’t stop him. 


End file.
